


No Common Sense I thru V and Epilogue

by JiM



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-07-31
Updated: 1998-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 07:00:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11330835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JiM/pseuds/JiM
Summary: Meeting on a cold and rainy night.





	No Common Sense I thru V and Epilogue

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

A Touch of...by JiM

24 Jan 1998  
Story: "A Touch of...", M/K, PG-13, 1/1  
Disclaimer: The characters belong to CC and 1013 and everyone but me. This is a work of fiction intended only for private enjoyment.  
Note: Many thanks to Anne & Dawn for beta-reading and to Leila for inspiring.  
Warning: If under 18, don't be here. Contains suggestion of m/m sex  
Feedback: Constructive criticism always appreciated at: 

* * *

A Touch of...  
by JiM (for Leila)

Rain again. It is always wet in D.C. Either it's hot and muggy, or it's cold and raining. Tonight, it's cold and rainy - a nice atmospheric touch, I think. I would probably enjoy it more if I weren't standing here with a cold and freezing in soaked leather. 

I wish I had my Bureau-approved overcoat again; actually, I wish I had a few more of the Bureau-approved accessories I used to enjoy. Like a car, a cell-phone, cash and a partner to guard my back. Trinkets long gone, lost in the hurricane made of a thousand decision-points, some known and some unnoticed. So, a hundred small betrayals later, I am shivering and coughing in the shadows of a doorway in old Alexandria, looking for one man, trying not to be noticed by all the others. 

It's not so difficult, actually, although it is a skill - the Art of Being Overlooked. One simply makes no eye contact, slouches to appear relaxed and fixes one's eyes on nothing in particular. It is even easier if one is maimed, I discovered. No one wants to see mutilation; even eyes trained to observe slide right past the truncated and the ugly, yet retain no other impression of me. If challenged, the twenty commuters who have passed me this evening would possibly remember that they had seen a maimed man, yet would not be able to describe me beyond that one fact. It's useful to me, this missing arm. Perhaps I should have had one cut off long ago. 

But, no.

He comes. I track him from two blocks away, walking bareheaded in the rain. The uncertain orangish streetlights make him appear particularly grim and I wonder if he has come here to kill me tonight. No, I reassure myself, as he crosses the street, he promised me amnesty for the information. Amnesty and money, two things in short supply right now. I gaze along his backtrail but see no watchers, no tails.

How do I know I can trust him? He asked me that, on the phone earlier. 

\- How do I know? Simple, Mulder. You gave your word.

There was no sound from the receiver, but I could almost see that small smile on his face, the one that says another secret, another small vanity has been uncovered. Fox Mulder, Man of Honor. 

-Honor - it's a weakness, Mulder. 

Lose it, I want to say. But not tonight, not while I still need you. Not while I can take some kind of parched comfort in the fact that you will not betray a betrayer.

\- It's a simple deal I'm offering. The name of the assassin who shot the Morley man for $1,000 cash.

He was silent for a long time after that. I wondered if he were having the call traced. It wouldn't matter; I was in a phone booth right outside the Pentagon City subway station. I would be gone as soon as I hung up the phone.

\- Why so little? he finally asked, surprising me.

\- My needs are few, Mulder. I just need enough to give me some breathing room.

I just need to see you, I think, then curse myself. I *do* have more information that he'd like, information he'd pay dearly for. But I won't sell it, not yet, not unless I need to. Need. 

I am coughing again as he comes up to me, in that doorway outside the closed bookstore.

\- Krycek. Nasty cough you've got there. You ought to stop smoking.

I am finally able to stop, my lungs aching in the knife-cold night air.

\- Oh, I have Mulder, I have. I don't even talk to Smokers any more.

He peers into my face, trapping my eyes, a searching look that I cannot escape even as it burns me. Don't bother, Mulder. Just beneath the surface of the mud, there's more mud here. Surprise.

Avidity - greed, that's always been my problem. More, I always wanted more. More money, more power, more of all that makes life sweet. And more of Mulder. There were plenty of other people's secrets I could have turned into cash on a rainy night in D.C., but I needed to see him. To look into his shadowed eyes, as I am doing now, trying to see into him. It's greed, I know it. Because, beneath Mulder's surface, there is something that gleams. And I want it.

\- Better for your health, he agrees gravely. I cough again, those deep barking coughs that kept me from sleeping last night in the bus station. There is almost concern in his voice as he says,

\- You really are sick, aren't you?

\- Just a touch of flu, Mulder. Now - do we have a deal?

\- You're shivering.

\- I'm standing in the rain and freezing, Mulder, what do you expect? Do we have a deal?

\- Did you kill my father?

Oh god, not again. How many times must we play out this scene, Mulder? I decide on a sure-fire tactic and say,

\- Speaking of fathers... *do* you want to know who shot your smoking friend?

He grabs my shoulders and slams me into the brick wall under the bookstore's blank windows. I start to grin, but the coughing rips my attention away from anything but the fire in my lungs. His hands shift on me, the left one biting into my upper arm, the right one left gripping only air.

There is a noise that is twisted out of him when he realizes that there is nothing to grab there any more. I hear it in between my choking coughs; it is a soft, wounded noise, like an animal out here in the rain.

\- Spare me, Mulder, I gasp, doubled up nearly against his chest. - I don't need your pity.

\- What happened?

\- You're a clever boy, Mulder, figure it out. Or should I show you my passport? They're mighty unfriendly in that part of the former Soviet Union.

He is still holding my arm and gripping my empty sleeve. I am still hunched over, trying to force enough air back into my lungs to help me think again. It won't work, I think dismally, as I straighten slowly. I am too sick, too tired, too cold and too greedy to think tactically any more. All I can think of is what I need.

My fingers scrabble in my coat pocket. I hold out the folded slip of paper.

\- Here. That's what you came for.

\- What did you come for, Krycek?

The words are soft but the eyes are not. Uh oh. I am in real trouble here. As long as he was angry, as long as he was ready to hit me, I knew what he would do and could control it. But now...

\- Money, Mulder. I came for money.

His lips curve in a not-smile and he hands me an envelope, thick with bills. I don't count it, just stuff it in my pocket.

 - You're not going to count it?

\- No reason, I shrug. He is standing directly in front of me, his presence pinning me to the bricks still, although he doesn't lay a hand on me.

\- What will you do now?

\- Find somewhere to hole up, get over the flu and then...

\- Then? he prompts

\- Do what I do best. Survive.

\- You do seem unusually good at that, he acknowledges.

\- Not wholly, I shrug, jerking my chin at my missing left arm. 

He grimaces at the unintentional pun, then slowly stares into my eyes. I feel my fever sweep across me again, and with it, fear. I can see his mind working, tearing away at the questions of why I am here, why I came to him, what other information I might have for sale. His eyes are clear and cold in the rain-shadow of the bookstore and I want to be very far away when he begins to find his answers.

Need and Wanting are weaknesses, too, even more so than Honor. It is our weaknesses that have drawn us together tonight. I start to cough again and shiver. When I am done with this bout, I lean my head back against the bricks and take deep, slow breaths that slice through my lungs. When I open my eyes, he pins me to the wall with his gaze.

I see something dangerous flicker through his eyes and raise one arm to ward off a blow. Which does not come.

Steam rises from his rain-soaked hand as he gently touches my forehead with the backs of his fingers.

\- You've got a fever.

I nod dumbly.

His fingers slip down and now his long, elegant hand is cupping my face. I can't help it, I lean into it, just a fraction. That seductive warmth, the only warmth, it seems, in this whole cold, rainy night. 

\- You should get out of the cold, Krycek.

His thumb traces across my lips, once. I shiver and he smiles. It is not a nice smile.

I close my eyes, unable to bear the cool speculation in his eyes, the glow of cold pleasure in a theory proved right, an answer found.

When I open my eyes, the street is empty; he is gone. And I am so cold.

Finis

 

* * *

 

24 Jan 1998  
Story: "A Scent of...", M/K, PG-13, 1/1 (sequel to "A Touch of...")  
Disclaimer: The characters belong to CC and 1013 and everyone but me. This is a work of fiction intended only for private enjoyment.  
Note: Many thanks to Dawn for beta-reading and to Leila for inspiring.  
Warning: If under 18, don't be here. Contains suggestion of m/m sex and grappling in cars.  
Feedback: Constructive criticism always appreciated at: 

* * *

A Scent of...  
by JiM

It's cold again. But this time, I am dressed for it. Cashmere overcoat, wool suit, Italian shoes, gloves -- glove, I correct myself. The information trade has been profitable and I am enjoying the benefits.

This time, I am not ill. My mind is clear and sharp and no fever burns away my common sense.

No. That is not true. I am sick. What other reason could there be for me to be standing in the misty shadows of Roosevelt Island at midnight, waiting for one of the legion of men with reason to wish me dead? Waiting for Mulder. I shiver, deep inside my cashmere overcoat, from something that is not cold, not at all. 

I stare down into the Potomac, hoping to see my reflection in the dark water, but the shadows are too deep, the light too dim, too far away. A car pulls into the lot and draws up next to the footbridge. The headlights go out, but I can still hear the engine. I watch, and wait, for ten minutes. There are no tails that I can see. Nothing moves but the fog, rolling in off the river, up from the sea.

I walk over to the passenger window and knock, once. The door is unlocked. I open it, slide inside and close and lock the door again. Then I turn to look at him.

\- Mulder.

\- Krycek, he returns evenly.

His face is shadowed, the dashlights illumine too little. His eyes seem huge and dark, yet there is a green gleam deep in them. Feral hunger, or reflection from the tachometer, I wonder, and smile a little at my own folly.

\- Something funny?

\- I think we need a soundtrack. You know, something suited to --- I wave my hand around -- all this.

He looks at me as if I am mad. Mentally, I shrug. I am.

I do not need Special Agent Fox Mulder. That is my mantra now. And it works as well as most mantras. So I am sitting here, next to a man who would like nothing more than to watch me drown in a pool of my own blood, selling him back the little mysteries of his life. Tonight, it is the address of the Smoking Man's daughter. I do not need the money Mulder will pay me for this slip of paper. What I need is...

\- Something mysterious and eerie, suited to shady deals made with hired killers in dark places at midnight? he asks, lips twisting. I nod. His sense of humor always caught me off-guard.

The heater is still on and I am gradually relaxing into the warmth. Our breath is misting the windshield, the fog inside struggling to join with the fog outside. There is a scent to him, that he has always had. 

Once, I hid at the foot of a redwood; it had begun to rain, and I was pressed in tight against the solidity of the tree, protected by it. There was a rich, spicy scent in the air and I gulped in great sobbing breaths of that perfumed air as my pursuers passed me by. Sitting beside him, it is that same scent that twines through me now, like smoke, like incense, like the fog curling all around us. 

\- You've come up in the world. His fingers are tugging lightly at the lapel of my overcoat, running up and down.

\- Business has been good. 

His knuckles are pressing against my chest as they slide up and down. There are layers of cloth between us but I feel his touch. His hand stops, presses a little harder over my heart.

He knows. Damn him, he knows. I breathe deeply, his scent swimming in my head.

\- What do you have for me this time?

\- A woman's address.

\- Which woman? But he knows this, too. I can feel his hand tremble against me.

\- This one. 

I pull out a small black and white photograph, taken years ago, of a college girl. Her features are surreal in the greenish glare of the instrument panel. Or maybe it is we who are distorted and she is merely... a girl. I flip the photo, to show that there is an address written on the back. 

-What's the price?

\- It's a current address, Mulder. I checked it myself. She was there this afternoon.

His hand clenches on my coat. He wants to hit me, I can feel it. He needs to strike out. And he wants to find his sister. He wants the truth, he wants to believe. His wants and needs vibrate through him.

\- I know, Mulder, I know, I say stupidly, trying to comfort him. I know what it is to have needs and wants that will never be met.

\- The price, he grinds out, shaking me. 

\- I don't need money anymore, Mulder. 

That, at least, is the truth. How odd, I think, he never seems to realize that I tell *him* the truth more than any other human being. I have only lied to him once; of course, it was the biggest and the cruelest.

He has both hands twisted in my coat. He has pulled me close, half-dragging me across the seat. Mulder is staring into my face, his eyes burning into me. The fever is back, rippling through me. The fog has completely muffled the car now - there is no sound but our breathing. 

I watch the heat die in his eyes. It is replaced by a cool sort of calculation. Now I am shivering - it is definitely the fever again. He knows, my mind babbles in numb terror. I do not move.

\- I know what you want, Krycek. I know.

I'm in trouble. I'm in more danger than I was when he held a gun on me, strung out on acid and insomnia. Oh Christ, Mulder, pull your gun - I know what to do with that. But he doesn't. 

He kisses me.

His mouth is hard and demanding. There is contempt on his lips; his tongue stabs angrily past my teeth, searching for mine. This is no lover's kiss, no.

I don't care.

One hand slides up and his fingers are now locked in my hair. My hand is on his shoulder, barely touching him. I wish I were not wearing that glove, I want to touch him properly, with my own fingers, without violence. Just once.

That hand in my hair yanks my head back, and I stare into the darkness, into his face a couple of inches from mine. I can't see his expression.

\- Is this the price, Alex? he whispers viciously. - How far do I have to go? How much do you want for the picture, Alex?

I shake my head, trying to push some words past the Mulder-scented fog in my brain. I didn't mean for it to be like this. Did I?

\- Come on, Krycek. Name your price; here I am. 

I can't help it. I kiss him. His mouth opens easily and I am stealing into the richness that is Fox Mulder and it is so sweet that I am shaking. I put my hand up and try to loosen his grip on my hair; he tangles his fingers up with mine and I am trapped again.

I tear my mouth away, trying to get enough air to think. We lean against one another, cheek to cheek. His ragged breath is harsh in my ear and sweet, so sweet. I am kissing his cheek, his jaw, his throat. When I find the spot where his pulse beats, he groans, and I am caught there. Biting, licking, soothing with my lips before attacking him again. His scent is stronger here and I drink it in greedily.

The heat is flashing through my body; I can even feel it in my missing hand. He is here, right in my grasp, not fighting me. No, he wants this as much as I do. I can feel it singing in him, the same demon that has been howling in me. His hand is scrabbling at my coat, pushing it aside, tugging at my shirt buttons. 

 I am losing myself and I am terrified. I only wanted to dream of this; the reality of him is far too dangerous. Crystal clarity returns for one moment and saves me.

Pulling my hand free, even as I bring my mouth back to his, I grope around on the dashboard until I find the photograph. I slide it into his breast pocket. Even then, he almost snares me again. I cannot help but stroke his chest, just once. He moans into my mouth and pushes against me, begging for more.

No. No more. I can't take it, Mulder. I pull away from his mouth; it is the hardest thing I have ever done. He looks as dazed and crazed as I feel.

\- Paid in full, Mulder. God, was that whimper mine or his?

I rip open the door; the cold slinks in as I half-roll out of the car. I do not look behind me, at him, as I slam the door. If I did that, nothing would save me. Nothing.

 I watch from the shadows as he sits in his car, head in his hands, for long minutes. Suddenly, he smashes his fists onto the steering wheel. Temper, temper, Mulder. But my body understands perfectly and wants to smash something in sympathy.

I watch from the shadows as he drives away. His taste is still sweet in my mouth and his scent clings to me and it causes my vision to swim as he is swallowed up by the night and the fog.

Finis

 

* * *

 

31 Jan 1998  
Story: "A Taste of...", M/Sk, M/K, PG-13, 1/1 (sequel to "A Touch of..." and "A Scent of...")  
Disclaimer: The characters belong to CC and 1013 and everyone but me. This is a work of fiction intended only for private enjoyment.  
Series: This is Part 3 of the "No Common Senses" series.  
Note: Many thanks to Dawn for beta-reading and to Leila for inspiring.  
Warning: If under 18, don't be here. Contains suggestion of m/m sex.  
Feedback: Constructive criticism always appreciated at: 

* * *

A Taste of....  
By JiM

It's cold tonight. Usually, I love cold weather; sharp, bracing, a worthy opponent to be overcome. Not tonight. Tonight, the fog is thick and chill and it touched my neck like fingers, crawling against my skin. There is a cold, dusty scent in the air tonight - the lonely scent of fog that I can almost taste.

He is out there, somewhere in the fog. I lost him tonight.

I followed him tonight, to his meet with his mysterious new informant. The information on the shooter had checked out but Mulder refused to give me the name of his informant. That isn't unusual for Mulder, but the way he shifted in his seat and refused to meet my eyes was. So I followed him.

And then I lost him.

There is the scrape of a key in the lock and the door opens. Without looking, Mulder turns on a lamp beside the door, then throws the deadbolts before turning.

\- Sir? 

\- Where the hell have you been, Mulder?

I rise from the couch and stand there, just looking at him. A mistake.

He looks like a refugee from the back seat at a drive-in movie. His hair is ruffled, his tie loose, shirt collar and several buttons open. His lips are deep red, bruised-looking. There is a darkening welt on the left side of his throat. A hickey, Mulder, at *your* age? I want to laugh.

No. I want to roar. I want to batter something to death, strangle someone, drink his blood, because the most damning evidence is in Mulder's eyes.

\- Did I miss curfew, *Dad*? he takes refuge in sarcasm.

Before I know it, I am across the room, gripping his shoulders and shaking him, hard, once. His hands come up and shove me in the chest, hard, breaking my grip.

\- What the hell is wrong with you?!

We are both confused for a moment, because the wrong person said that. But I continue talking, no, growling at him, although I don't touch him again.

\- Are you trying to torpedo your career? Are you *trying* to get arrested for treason? What the hell do you think you're doing, meeting with Krycek?!

\- You followed me? There is anger blooming in his eyes now, shoving aside the other.

\- Damn right I did, Mulder. And what did I see?

I close my eyes against the memory, but it does no good. 

Mulder's car parked in the lot at Roosevelt Island, cold fog slinking around it. Nothing moving, until suddenly, there is a figure at the passenger door, back to me. The door opens and closes too quickly for me to see who it is. From this distance, all I can see are two shadowed figures, first sitting, then grappling, in the car. No - not fighting. Kissing.

I can't even name all that goes through me, but the chief emotion is disgust. I've sunk to a new low. I am sitting here, in the dark, spying on my agent as he meets a lover, not his contact. Then the passenger door slams open and the dark figure spins out of it. I hear the slam and watch the shadow cross the lot to melt into the other shadows.

I am colder than I have ever been. My anger is a cold, rolling, roiling thing in my chest. It traps me with icy, violent clarity. Because, for a brief moment, the figure straightened and I saw his face clearly in the orange-misted streetlight. Krycek.

\- You saw me meet my informant, Mulder says coolly.

\- I saw you ...

\- It's none of your business.

I want to shake him again. Hard. The ice that gripped me is shards in my gut.

\- Oh yes, it is, Mulder. You know who he works for.

\- Not anymore. He's gone freelance.

\- The fact that he's available to the highest bidder doesn't make me any happier, Agent Mulder. 

Ah, the refuge to be found in formula. You are my agent, I care only as a professional would. There are dangerous implications here for the Bureau and...

No. No, you are mine. I didn't know that, before tonight. But the cold has stripped away everything but that.

\- Why, Mulder? Why Krycek?

The words are out before I can stop myself. And I see that he knows what I am really asking, but he answers another question anyway.

\- He has information that I need, Sir.

\- And there's no other source for that information within regular channels?

\- You wouldn't even tell me the Smoking Man's name. Sir.

Strange how, even in the gloomy light cast by that one dust-encrusted lamp, I can see every nuance of his face. He almost hates me now. I have what he thinks he needs and I will not give it to him. I am protecting him and he doesn't want protection. He wants answers.

I know three of the Smoking Man's names. But none of them would help. The daughter has yet another name and never knew our nemesis by any of them. 

 - I looked for her.

His eyes widen, then he looks down and away. Young. He looks young and hurt and angry and I want nothing more than to hold him and soothe him. Then he rubs at the mark on his neck and I am swept by ice again. He holds out a photograph and shows me the address on the back.

\- This is where she is.

\- What did Krycek want in return?

I hate that tone in my voice. It's the one Sharon called my "rock-grinding voice". But I have no other voice to use now.

\- I didn't pass any classified material, if that's what you're worried about.

\- What did Krycek want, Mulder?

\- It was cheap at the price.

No. No, can't you see, it's everything. It cost everything. The bitterness is rising, freezing around both of us, twisting his mouth.

His mouth. How would it taste? What would it have tasted of before Krycek? Krycek. I know the taste of Krycek. 

Alex Krycek, back when he was new and green and promising, kissed me. He looked so malleable and freshly-minted, too sweet to be dipped in the acid-bath of mysteries that swirled around Mulder. There was an afternoon, in my office, when I looked up at the wrong moment, too open for just a moment, and his mouth was on mine.

Alex Krycek tasted of hot brass and need. He was appetite and greed. That's what he invited in return; it's what he calls forth - the hunger that stops at nothing. Perhaps I should have known then that he couldn't possibly be what he looked to be. I wanted him, badly, almost as badly as he wanted to be taken. Instead, I gently, firmly put him away from me and closed the door behind him. I still don't know why.

The silence has gone on too long; I have stared too long. Mulder says,

\- The shooter's name cost a thousand dollars.

\- That *is* cheap.

\- Well, that's Krycek's style, isn't it? 

I am grateful for his veering humor and feel the ice crack as I smile a little.

\- Write up the report and the Bureau will reimburse you.

He nods and strips off his jacket, dropping it on a chair. 

\- And the photo? 

\- No charge, Sir. 

He viciously yanks his tie out of his collar and drops it on the floor. He will not look at me. I step closer. Now I can smell him, register what I could not before, through the ice and the anger. He smells hot and dirty, the back-alley smell of frustration swirling thick around him. But beneath it, I can smell...

\- Please, just go, Sir.

No, not while he is looking at me like that. Not while he looks so lost to himself. I struggle to say something, to throw out some kind of lifeline in the ice-bitter sea into which he has cast himself. It's just Krycek, Mulder, I want to say. It's who he is, he can't help but draw you under, too. I know, I remember.

\- Where did he touch you, Mulder?

He is as bewildered as I am by my words. We stand and stare at one another and the space between us is filled with the silent creaking and cracking of ice as it shifts in the midnight air. Then he moves.

There is a warm whisper of sound as he touches his left shoulder.

Moving slowly, so slowly, I reach out and cover his shoulder with my right hand. He shivers beneath my hand, although he is warm, so warm beneath the cloth. I rub a little, barely moving my hand, wiping away Krycek's touch. After a time, he stops shivering and stands, unresisting, beneath my hand.

\- Where else, Mulder?

His fingers barely touch his cheek; they are trembling. I catch them in my left hand, and reach out, so slowly, to touch his cheek with my other hand. Once again, I am struck by how large my hands are. My hand curves and covers most of the side of his face. His beard pricks at my fingers and rasps against my palm as I soothe him.

His eyes fix on mine desperately. The ice is gone from between us and from within me. Now there is only a summer warmth.

\- Where?

But he can't answer now. It's all right, I want to say, I know. Instead, I draw him to me gently. I bend my head to his, but stop and look into his eyes. He must want this, too. I will not take from him; too many have taken from him.

His eyes are dark and unreadable now. But he sways forward, just a little. It is enough. 

I kiss him. 

I meant it to be mild, like a cleansing rain. But that is not what he wants or needs. He wants the catharsis of conflagration. His mouth opens beneath mine, drawing me in, setting everything that has been between us afire. Now he is hard against me, hands moving over my back and shoulders, skimming up my arms, gripping my head.

When we pull apart for a moment's breath, he grabs my hand and puts it against his chest.

\- Here.

He is running my hand across his chest, fingers biting into my wrist. I feel the hard muscles beneath my fingers, the elegant bow of his collarbone. My thumb nestles in the hollow of his throat and I feel the hunger beating within him.

I feel the hunger beating within me. I kiss him again, a sharp, hot pleasure. Then I trail across his face, down to his jaw. He groans and turns his head, baring his throat to me. Ah yes, now I remember. I draw my lips down the proud line of his throat until I reach that mark. Then I bite him, hard. His gasp gentles me again, immediately.

I kiss and soothe the wound, licking and sucking at it until it is shaped to my satisfaction. I inhale deeply in the hollow of his throat where his scent is strongest.

There is no more taint of Alex Krycek about him now. All I can see and taste and smell about him is Fox Mulder. He tastes like spring rain in the northern forests. It is a night scent, a midnight taste that should be cool but is hot, so sweet and hot.

Mine, you're mine, the growl curls and prowls through my chest but I will not say it aloud. Mulder has had enough of being claimed and demanded and manipulated. I hold him against me, neither of us speaking, for a long time. Time enough for our harsh breathing to calm, time enough for me to stroke his hair and back, soothing and gentling him until he remembers how exhausted he is.

He is sagging as I put some space between us. He looks confused.

\- Sir? Don't you want...

\- Oh yes, Mulder. I want. But not now, not tonight.

\- I don't understand.

\- You're tired, Mulder. Sleep.

Trust me, I want to say. But trust can only be given, not demanded. - As if I could sleep now, he half-smiles. 

I gently push him toward his bedroom. He stops in the doorway. - Aren't you going to tuck me in? 

I want to shout aloud at the teasing light that is back in his eyes. - Have pity on an old man, Mulder.

He smiles, a slow, cat-smile that sends hot ripples through me, and says, - No mercy, Walter. When the time comes, no mercy.

I turn and run then, before I push him into that bedroom and make love to him until he is unconscious. His soft laughter follows me out into the hallway, twining around me.

Out on the street, I welcome the cold's embrace again. It shocks me out of the pleasant muzziness I fell into in Mulder's apartment, in Mulder's embrace. I walk more quickly now, not minding the sour tang of the fog. My mouth is filled with the taste of spring rain and the promise of Fox Mulder.

Finis

Part 4 will be "A Sound of ..."

 

* * *

 

Fri, 06 Mar 1998   
M/Sk   
NC-17   
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, intended for private enjoyment of fans. No copyright infringement intended.   
Archive: MSSS/MKRA, Mona's page   
Feedback: Yes, please, to   
Note: This is Part 4 of the "No Common Senses" series. The rest of the series, and its companion pieces by Leila, can be found at MKRA/MSSS or at: http://www.geocities.com/Paris/Metro/4859/JiM.html (thanks Mona!)   
Thanks: To Dawn, who talked me off the ledge and to Kam, and, of course, Leila. 

* * *

"A Sound Of..."  
By JiM

It is a freezing night tonight. We stand in the parking lot of the Inn for a  
moment and listen to the sound of ice on the river, cracking in the cold. The  
air is like crystal and the moonlight flows down, coating everything with  
silver.

Inside, all is golden warmth and whispered elegance. The Inn has stood here  
for well over two hundred years and is unsurprised by the two of us together.  
I wish Mulder shared that serenity.

Tonight, though, he is charming and witty. His humor ambushes me from  
unexpected directions, demanding smiles and occasional laughter from me. He  
is more playful when he is away from the office; I suppose I am, too, although  
this is no game to me.

There is a fire in the massive fireplace behind me; I feel its warmth at my  
back and watch its light touch Mulder with gold; it whispers as it burns, in a  
language strange, yet already known to me. His hands flicker in and out of  
shadow even as his voice drawls, laughter lurking behind his words. The fire  
kindles hot green embers in his eyes and I am suddenly too warm, staring.

\- Walter?

\- I was just remembering.

At his raised eyebrow, I explain.

\- I was remembering how you looked last night. And felt.

He flushes and looks away, over my shoulder, into the flames. I smile. I  
have finally found a way to shut Fox Mulder up. Two ways, I remind myself,  
and am washed by heat again.

Last night, I had taken him to a basketball game. The Wizards lost, but  
neither one of us cared. It was enough merely to be together, relaxed,  
enjoying ourselves in a normal way. I have never thought of basketball as a  
seduction technique, but I am slowly learning that every lover is different,  
perhaps this one most of all.

I took him home, following him up to his apartment, as I had three nights in  
the past two weeks. That moment outside the door is always the tricky one.  
It used to be the point when a gentleman kissed his date good night and left.  
But hallways are not my style, and I hardly think Mulder's neighbors would  
smile tolerantly at two men kissing desperately outside their doors.

Inside, the apartment still dark, he turned and flowed into my arms. A few  
evenings of breathless experimentation had taught him exactly how I liked to  
be kissed. He had also established that it took very little effort on his  
part to turn my mind to jelly and to make my body rebellious, his touch  
lighting a thousand traitorous fires for me to fight. The scientific mind at  
work is a frightening thing sometimes.

\- Stay.

\- Not tonight. Soon.

\- There's an ugly word for this kind of behavior, Walter.

He is only half-smiling, a hard, hungry edge in his eyes.

\- And there's a nicer one for it. Soon.

He opens his mouth to protest, to argue, to seduce. Before he can speak, I  
kiss him very gently and leave. That is getting harder and harder to do. But  
he needs to know me, I want him to understand who it is he is getting.  
Because, once he is mine, I will not let him go. Ever.

We have finished an excellent meal and some very old brandy. I pay the bill  
and we rise to leave. Mulder has protested every time I have done that, and I  
have ignored him every time. It is my weakness, this need to be in control,  
to be the source of all strength and good things for the one I love. I have  
to let him see this, too.

The drive back to the city is quiet, a comfortable, thoughtful silence. We  
are still mellowed by firelight and brandy. The highway is empty and moon-  
dark; it seems as if one could see quite clearly, but the moonlight blurs  
edges and disguises the depths of things until all is twisted out of true and  
undependable.

We have not spoken of that night, the fog and Krycek. I know that he has  
gone to meet the woman he believes is his sister. He will tell me when he can.  
I know, too, that he has not seen Krycek since that night. What I do not know  
is whether he ever will again.

Without fanfare, his hand has come to rest on my thigh, where it is burning  
into me. I can't speak; I can feel his gaze on me but I can't take my eyes  
from the road. I know myself well enough to know that if I look at him now,  
I'll stop the car and ...

I'm too old to feel this way.

Something is different tonight; Mulder is different. We reach his apartment  
and he gestures me inside before him with a brittle kind of courtesy that  
crumbles the moment I am through the door. I have taken two steps inside when  
I hear it slam behind me. Strong hands seize, spin and throw me back against  
the door. Then Mulder is against me, pinning my arms, face very close to  
mine, as he whispers, grinning,

\- No mercy tonight, Walter. You are not leaving here until you fuck me.

I shake my head.

-You're wrong, Mulder. I'm never going to fuck you.

Now, his teeth are bared and his eyes burn and I remember belatedly that he  
carries a gun. He is hot and dangerous and there will be bruises tomorrow  
where he grips my arms.

\- You *bastard*.

I am not good with words; I try again to tell him what I have been telling  
him for two weeks.

\- I *am* going to make love to you.

He looks puzzled, as if I am speaking a foreign language, one of which he has  
incomplete mastery.

\- There's a difference?

he asks slyly, slowly rolling his hips against me. That pressure kindles the  
slow fire that begins rolling through me, cutting off everything that is not  
this man, this heat and hardness of him. My voice thrums oddly in my chest,  
hard against his, as I say,

\- Oh yes, there's a difference. And one other thing. If I stay tonight, I'm  
not leaving ...

He starts to grin again and I can see him formulating some smart-ass remark  
about snoring or sharing a pillow.

\- ...ever.

I have discovered the third way to shut Fox Mulder up, and smile, as I lean  
down and kiss him. His mouth opens to me and I am lost in him. He tastes  
wild and sweet, like summer fruit eaten hot from the tree. How can I not take  
all that this man wants to give me?

Mulder's agile fingers have been unbuttoning, unfastening, unzipping,  
unbelievable while I have been caught up in his sweetness. Somehow, I am now  
bared, chest to thigh, for him, my clothes pushed aside or stripped from me.  
He presses my hands flat against the door.

He starts at my left ear, licking and biting at it, lingering. Then he  
allows himself to slide down my body, just a fraction at a time, kissing,  
licking, sucking, biting, nibbling. He is flowing down me like honey and  
there is a sound of bees in summertime. He is humming against my skin and I  
can barely keep still beneath his mouth.

His hands are smoothing their way downwards, too, slipping over my chest and  
ribs and stomach. Now he is kneading my thighs, grinning in victory as he  
feels the muscles quiver and twitch at his touch. Yes, Mulder, you have that  
power over me; I give it to you freely.

He nuzzles my erection. My teeth clench on a shout as he rubs his night-  
roughened cheek across the head of my cock. His eyes glitter up at me; he  
knows exactly what he is doing to me and likes it this way. Likes *me* this  
way, incoherent and weak with lust.

He lips the head of my penis and I feel the touch of his mouth ripple through  
me. There is a sound like slate slipping; it is my hands clawing helplessly  
at the door behind me. Then I am sliding, plunging into the fire that I have  
always known burns in him.

He is still humming and his hands wander restlessly across my body. I know  
that he is cataloging me, my reactions, learning every sensitive spot on me  
that he can reach. On his knees, head bent, my cock filling his mouth and  
*he* is the one in control. How odd, I think, then stop thinking entirely as  
he begins lapping at my balls. My hands are cupping his head before I realize  
that I have moved them.

His hand slides down and takes my erection in a firm grip; it is almost, but  
not quite, too hard as he pumps me. I am balanced on the fine edge of  
madness, watching the tip of his tongue slowly slide across his full lips as  
he watches me, judging the exact moment to slaughter me with his mouth.

Without warning, he sucks me in deep and there is nothing I can do. I can't  
even make a sound. It is too hot, too sweet, too much. I am pouring down his  
throat and it lasts forever, his head between my hands, his hands cool against  
my burning skin.

He looks up at me, finally, and wipes at the corner of his mouth with one  
thumb, considering.

\- Debauched is a good look for you, Walter.

His laughter is cool, bright water flowing over me. Suddenly, I can move  
again. I shrug my jacket and shirt off my arms. They fall to the floor,  
forgotten, as I yank my slacks back up. He is still laughing as I drag him to  
his feet, flushed and beautiful when I kiss him.

Mulder tastes bittersweet and triumphant. We are still kissing, but moving  
toward the bedroom, clumsy and exultant. I am half-carrying, half-pushing  
him; the rasp of his shirt against my heated skin is maddening. It tears away  
easily and he is laughing again. I know now that I will do anything to hear  
that untainted sound from him.

He tumbles backward onto the bed, pulling me down on top of him. It is his  
turn now and he turns his head, offering me his throat. Not in submission,  
no; he is demanding pleasure from me. So I give it to him. I nip and suck at  
the side of his throat, the same place that started all of this. That mark  
has never had a chance to heal; I renew it every time I see him alone.

Down his chest, caressing him with my lips, I hear the sound of waves on a  
rocky shore; it is my own harsh breathing against his skin. He tastes of salt  
and cedars, like the rainforests on the coast, mist curling up from the ocean  
to tangle among the trees. I nuzzle his smooth abdomen and grin as I feel the  
tremors start, under my lips, beneath my hands, against my chest.

They stop as my lips close around the head of his cock. His body is surging  
up to meet me, like a wave caught and held, timeless and yearning to crest.  
And the sounds he is making ...

 -Walter, please.

I slide back up his surging body and cover his mouth with mine. Not to  
silence him, but to capture and swallow those sounds, to keep them with me  
forever. My head is caught between his hands and he wrenches me away from his  
mouth to gasp,

\- Now?

He is flexing and straining beneath me and his teeth are clenched; I might  
almost think he were in pain. He seems bewildered by his abandonment to his  
own senses.

\- Now, Fox.

Mulder twists beneath me and claws something out of the drawer of the bedside  
table. He is shoving a condom and a tube of lubricant at me with the finality  
of a condemned man refusing a blindfold.

\- I told you, Walter. No mercy.

Startled, I stare at him, not knowing what to do, until I see the green  
devil-light rekindle in his eyes. Then he is kissing me again and we are  
sliding against one another, toward some place where heat and hardness are  
one. I need to see his eyes, to be anchored by them, to prove that I am here,  
in this moment.

The gel is cool on my fingers as I slide one, then two, into his warmth. He  
is bucking and thrusting against me, the desperation back in his eyes.

\- No. Not yet.

He is the one who demanded no mercy, I think, and grin, slowly twisting my  
fingers in him. A raw animal noise bleeds out from between his teeth and I am  
lost. His legs lock around me, dragging me into the heat and madness of his  
body. I am fighting him to keep from hurting him, but he wants none of it.  
He yanks my head down to his and thrusts his tongue into my mouth, demanding  
the same thing from the rest of my body. He is bucking and twisting beneath  
me, my bulk no match for his need.

\- Easy, Mulder, easy. Let me love you.

\- Walter. I'm not made of glass. Come on, give it to me!

All common sense is ripped away then.

Our lovemaking is fierce and hot and rougher than some not-so-friendly fucks  
I have had. Once again, it is Mulder who is so different from all that I have  
known.  
*He* has not always been so much larger than his partners, as I have been. He  
can freely kick and pound at the sheets, his thighs, my shoulders - he has no  
restraints on his pleasure. And now I have none either. Because he can take  
whatever I give him, and more.

The freedom is like nothing else I have known. I am murmuring his name over  
and over, staring into his eyes, sinking into his body deeper and deeper,  
again and again. Something tightens impossibly within him and everything  
about him is still for a one-breath eternity. And the wave breaks over me and  
I am tumbling and lost and shouting.

I am lying, shipwrecked, on his chest, listening to the ebb and flow of his  
breath as his hands slip across my slick back. Sometimes, I tip my head up  
and kiss his slack but welcoming lips. Sense and cognition are slowly soaking  
back into me and I begin to slide off of him before I can smother him. His  
arms clutch around me.

\- It's OK, Mulder. I'm just going to go clean up.

His smile is like the dawn coming up over the sea and I know what to say  
next.

\- I told you; I'm not leaving. Ever.

*** 

I swim out of sleep to feel his hot, elegant length pressed against my back.  
His hands are coursing, one sliding up my spine and across my skull; the  
other, slipping around to stroke my cock. Before I can even move, his hands  
are gone. I clench my teeth and try not to roll over and pounce on him.

It is not as easy as I had thought it would be, this yielding to someone,  
giving over control of my own pleasure. It is what I have been trying to do  
for weeks, yet, now, at the very moment, I am afraid. Then I remember what I  
knew last night - he can take anything I can give him, and more. The real  
question is, can *I* give him myself? Trust him as he trusts me now?

Then he is slowly, carefully, slipping a slick finger inside me. It has been  
so long, the flash of pleasure is mistaken for pain and my breath catches.

\- It's OK, Walter. Let me make love to you...please.

His whisper is hot sand blowing across the shingle. That mouth, that demonic  
grinning mouth, is slipping across my shoulders and neck, making it almost  
impossible for me to concentrate on what he is doing with his hands. There is  
an undertow pulling me away from myself. I let it.

\- Fox. Now?

His reply is a ripple of sound across my back.

\- Now, Walter.

He slides into me and my thoughts are all washed away by the pleasure of him  
moving within me. This is new to me, this sense of completion, of connection,  
of union. Moving together, deeper into one another, free to feel the animal  
joy of loving one another. And I do not want it to end. I will never let it  
end.

\- Mine. You are all mine, now. I belong to you.

Possession is a two-way street.

***

When I wake again, I am alone. I have a dim tactile memory of him stroking  
my face and there is the echo of a soft voice, then a door slamming in my  
head. Running - that's it, he is going running.

I get up, grope for my glasses and pull on the sweats that he has left out  
for me. Baggy and long on him, they hug me and whisper against me in places  
left sore and loved from the night before. And this morning.

Mulder has left coffee made for me and I pour myself a cup. Then I stand at  
the kitchen window, gazing idly out at the silent street below. I feel lazy  
and sated and hungry and my skin hums with recall.

There is frost on the window and it frames my lover as he stretches against a  
telephone pole, then stands for a moment, his breath steaming straight into  
the gray morning sky. He ripples into an easy jog, a joy to watch. My heart  
beats in time with his footfalls and I smile at the foolish romanticism that  
has been born in me.

As he reaches the end of the street, a dark-haired man in jeans and a leather  
jacket swings into step beside him. Mulder's pace falters for an instant,  
then the two men are running in synch. As they round the corner, out of  
sight, the dark man's left sleeve flaps uselessly in the icy air.

\- No mercy.

There is no sound in the empty kitchen.

Finis

(Part 5 - "A Sight Of..." will conclude the "No Common Senses" series)

 

* * *

 

Sat, 07 Mar 1998 21:46:11 -0500  
M/Sk, M/K  
PG-13  
part 5a of No Common Senses Series

"A Sight of... <Krycek>"

Disclaimer: This is a work of speculative fiction, intended for the private enjoyment of fans, not copyright infringement. If you don't like men in cheerfully sexual relationships with each other, please do not read this.  
Series: Part 5a of the "No Common Senses", which can all be found at MKRA/MSSS or at: http://www.geocities.com/Paris/Metro/4859/JiM.html (thanks Mona!)  
Archive: MKRA/MSSS and Mona's site.  
Note: Many thanks to Leila, Kam, Dawn and Anne, who have all put in enormous amounts of time listening to me whine and beta-reading. <g> Watch for Leila's part 5c, Mulder's POV.  
Feedback: Please! The name of the game is to get better, so all constructive criticism welcomed at: 

* * *

A Sight of...<Krycek>  
By JiM

I hate surveillance work. It's boring, exhausting and it's almost always too cold or too hot. Tonight, it's too cold as I sit on the fire-escape across from his apartment. The iron treads are burning cold stripes into my ass as I wait for the light to come on, waiting for him to get upstairs. I saw him come home alone. Tonight is the night.

But it's not the cold or the boredom that I hate most about surveillance. It's how good I am at it. I watch a man long enough, I know how he thinks, how he moves, what he likes to eat. I find myself sugaring my coffee just because my mark does.

If you watch a man long enough, you know his hopes, his dreams, his nightmares. You know which way he'll jump when you press a gun against his side. I hate losing myself in someone else's life. 

It's happened again. And the punchline is that this isn't business, no one is paying me to watch this man. I'm doing it because I can't stop myself.

I have been in his apartment twice, just to check the lay of the land. Nice place, well-kept; the man is not obsessive, but orderly. The walls are bare, the furniture is sparse but of good quality. There are no photos but there are books everywhere. No pets or plants. I know all the possible exits and doors and which direction to turn the locks now.

He is a man of regular habits. He rises early and follows the same morning routine; early to work, stays late, brings paperwork home, few calls, no visitors. Except one.

I have watched him for two weeks now and I know it all; how he moves, what he eats, when he works out, how he thinks, what he wants. 

Sometimes, it's on his face when he looks at Mulder. 

He wants to wake up in the morning with Mulder's head on his chest. To have Mulder call him from the side of some highway, for no other reason than to hear his voice. To burn his steaks and bitch about the phone bill. To feel him arch beneath my hands, slide into my body like a man coming home, to hold his head in my lap and soothe away the wounds of the world.

Walter Skinner wants the white picket fence, the barking dog, the scent of bread baking and someone he loves to smile at him when he comes home from chasing the bad guys.

It is a sick joke to discover that Walter Skinner and I want the same things.

It is laughably easy to get inside his apartment building, even for a one-armed man. It is less easy to get into his apartment; the locks are better and I am no longer as agile with the picks as I once was. Twice, I have to stop because the bunch of picks rattles against the door. But the surveillance has paid off; I know that he takes a shower every evening when he comes home. It is as if he is washing away the scent and touch of the FBI. He will not hear my fumbling over the sound of the water.

I ease the door open and am pleased to hear the shower running. Good old dependable, regular, faithful Walter Skinner. Consistency is a hobgoblin, Walter. In this case, it is death. 

My gun is in my hand now. Few people appreciate how difficult it is to screw a silencer onto the barrel of a pistol with only one hand. It is a new skill, one I take pride in, just as I pride myself on my ability to research carefully and finish a job without fuss. I am moving quickly through the living room, down the hallway toward the bathroom, when I discover just how badly I have screwed up.

Fox Mulder comes striding out of the bedroom at the end of the hallway, whistling and pulling a sweatshirt over his head, carrying a towel.

My thoughts scatter like rabbits at the sight of him. When did he get here? Skinner arrived alone. Mulder must have come in earlier. Damn!

Mulder has stopped, all movement frozen, staring at me. I wonder why. Oh. I am pointing a silenced automatic at him.

\- Hi.  
\- Krycek! What the hell are you doing?

Jesus, he looks like a runner-up for the varsity squad, collecting towels after the game for the bigger boys. His hair is rumpled and his eyes are large and dark and they burn straight through me. 

The memory of his scent, the taste of him on my lips, the touch of his hands, the sound of his voice murmuring 'I know what you want,' -- are all swirling around me, a tornado of sensual images, shredding my thoughts.

This was not what I had planned on.

\- Krycek...  
\- Shut up.

He shuts up. What the hell do I do now? The shower shuts off. The silence is very loud now. I can almost see it rising like poisoned smoke between us.

\- Mulder! Where the hell are all the towels?  
\- Daddy's calling, Mulder. Give him his towel. Slowly.

Without taking his eyes from me, Mulder opens the door and tosses the towel in.

\- Call him out here.  
\- No.

Mulder's eyes never leave mine. He knows why I am here.

\- "No" what? Who are you talking to, Mulder?

The bathroom door opens and Walter Skinner steps out, towel wrapped around his waist, fumbling with his steamed glasses.

I checked out his prescription on one of my reconnaissance visits; he's nearsighted. He can only see things that are close to him. Like his lover, who has left his weapon in its holster on the hook by the door. Or an assassin standing in his hallway, weapon trained on his bare chest.

Gotta give Skinner credit. He sees me and freezes; in that long instant, he is watching, assessing, judging distances, angles and caliber. Then his face goes very still and he is stepping directly in front of me.

No, that's wrong. He is stepping in front of Fox Mulder.

\- Krycek.  
\- Skinner.

There is water beaded on his broad chest and a bite mark over Skinner's left nipple. The cold fog that has been trailing me, ever since that night by the river nearly a month ago, rises to choke me now. Since the night when I fled from Fox Mulder's touch, pushing him away, leaving him to this man. 

Mulder is trying to push Skinner out of the way. The ex-Marine merely braces his forearms against the walls on either side of the hall, becoming the immovable object. In a towel. I almost laugh at the sight. Almost.

\- Mulder. Get out of here.

Which one of us said that?

\- No.

Skinner and I exchange a glance, almost-humor sparking between us. We should have expected that response from the man we love. Then Skinner's gaze becomes something harder, colder. Even though he is unarmed and nearly naked, he is a cornered predator, therefore at his most dangerous now, in this moment.

I nod once and he returns it. Then I am caught by Mulder's eyes, staring desperately at me over Skinner's hard shoulder.

\- Alex. Don't do this. Please.  
\- It was always going to come to this, Mulder.  
\- It doesn't have to be this way.  
\- No. You could come with me. Step around him and come here. Leave with me.  
\- No, Alex.  
\- Then here we are,

I point out pleasantly and make a mock-courtly gesture with my gun hand. I catch sight of minute muscles beginning to ripple in Skinner's chest and arms.

\- Don't.

He subsides and I say,  
\- These are armor-piercing loads, Skinner. .45 Hardballs. They can tear through a Kevlar vest like it was tissue. And you don't seem to be wearing that much.

He is watching me, motionless. His eyes are cold and flat, ready.

Once, I shot a buck in the dead of winter. I looked up to find a wolf staring at me, assessing its chances of getting me away from that kill. I know that he will fight me to the death with his bare hands and teeth.

There is an almost imperceptible movement, a nearly trivial adjustment in our tableau. Skinner gasps, then his eyes close and his stony features are suddenly etched with despair.

I watch Mulder's arms close around his lover's chest and his chin comes to rest on the man's right shoulder. He is pressed in close behind Skinner. We all know what he has done.

If I shoot Skinner now, the bullets will rip right through both of them.

\- Please. Go. 

Skinner's whisper scrapes the walls of this too-narrow hallway. He is not talking to me.

Mulder doesn't answer. He just keeps staring at me, his face beside the other man's. Skinner's hands slowly clench into fists against the wall, the knuckles bloodless and white. His eyes are still closed and I know that he is not afraid to look at his own death. He just doesn't want to see Mulder's.

I don't know how long I stand there, looking at them. Locked together. Each one trying to protect the other. Each knowing that he has failed and that there is nothing more to do but die together.

That sight is burned behind my eyes forever.

It is the last thing I see at night, lying in another nameless hotel and lapping at the memory like sweet poison. It touches my mornings, before I have even opened my eyes, the sounds of their harsh, frightened breathing rushing in my ears. It is the last thing I see as I leave, my gun cool in its holster, my eyes burning.

A sight of...

I don't know. Something had to give in that hallway and, for once in my life, it was me. 

Finis

The End of the "No Common Senses" series (well, the end, if you count parts a, b and Leila's part c).

 

* * *

 

Sat, 07 Mar 1998 22:18:31 -0500  
M/Sk, M/K, 1/1,   
Part 5b of the No Common Senses Series

"A Sight of... <Skinner>"  
Disclaimer: This is a work of speculative fiction, intended for the private enjoyment of fans, not copyright infringement. If you don't like men in cheerfully sexual relationships with each other, please do not read this.  
Series: Part 5b of the "No Common Senses", which can all be found at MKRA/MSSS or at: http://www.geocities.com/Paris/Metro/4859/JiM.html (thanks Mona!)  
Archive: MKRA/MSSS and Mona's site.   
Note: Many thanks to Leila, Kam, Dawn and Anne, who have all put in enormous amounts of time listening to me whine and beta-reading. <g> Watch for Leila's part 5c, Mulder's POV.  
Feedback: Please! The name of the game is to get better, so all constructive criticism welcomed at: 

* * *

***  
A Sight of...(Skinner)  
Part 5b of the "No Common Senses" series  
By JiM  
***

Mulder is talking to himself again. I hear him as I turn off the shower. 

That has been one of the many surprises that we have given each other in these past weeks. Mulder talks to himself when he thinks he's alone. He has conversations with people who are not there; he claims it's a dress rehearsal for some upcoming meeting. But I know that some of the people he talks to are dead. Or gone.

I wonder what revelations I have missed while the hot water pounded on the back of my neck, soothing away the pounding I took in the budget meetings this afternoon. I miss being a field agent. At least I sometimes got to shoot the bad guys; now, I have to get them to sign off on my expense reports.

Stepping out of the shower, I stand dripping for a moment. I feel clean again, like I can give myself to him and not pass on the gray residue of the moral compromises, betrayals and tainted dealings that pass for daily functioning in my world.

\- Mulder! Where the hell are all the towels?

He mumbles something as I look around trying to find anything to wipe the steam off my glasses. The door opens and a towel comes flying at me. But no lover. That's a disappointment; his usual M.O. is to sneak in at the end of my shower, seize my towel and run it over every inch of my body with singular concentration. Once I got over the embarrassment of being pampered, I started to enjoy it. I realize that this is one of the ways he tells me of his love. We do not say the words. 

There is another mumble, then I hear clearly,

\- No. 

\- "No" what? Who are you talking to, Mulder?

I wrap my towel around my waist and wander out of the bathroom, sliding my glasses onto my face. The answer to my question is standing there, holding Mulder at bay with something lethal and high-calibre. Mulder is on my right, Krycek to my left. I step in between them. To get to Mulder, Krycek will have to go through me. The poisonous look in his eyes tells me he is planning to do just that.

\- Krycek.  
\- Skinner.

The world has not been kind to Alex Krycek recently, I note. Besides the obvious, he is gaunt and underfed-looking. He always had a plaintive charm, spread thick about him, like concealer. Now, there is no more charm; now, there is precious little left of the man but his bright-eyed hunger. He has the half-starved look of a lone wolf and I am standing between him and his prey.

Mulder tries to get around me in the narrow hallway. This hall used to irritate me; my shoulders brush against it on both sides when I walk down it. Now I am grateful to it as I brace my arms and lock Mulder behind me. There is nothing he can do in this situation. I know where his weapon is - right beside mine, hanging in the living room, a lifetime away. There is a fire escape outside the bedroom window behind us, however.

\- Mulder. Get out of here.

Which one of us said that?

\- No.

Of course he won't leave. I knew that. He is the most stubborn, idiotic person I have ever loved. When someone points a gun at you, Mulder, you leave. I make a mental note to point this out to him later, in satisfyingly loud detail. Krycek and I almost smile at one another, recognizing a common irritant. Then I remember. I feel a snarl start to rise in my throat.

He's mine. You will not hurt him.

But Mulder is not entirely defenseless. He says gently,

\- Alex. Don't do this. Please.  
\- It was always going to come to this, Mulder.  
\- It doesn't have to be this way.  
\- No. You could come with me. Step around him and come here. Leave with me.  
\- No, Alex.  
\- Then here we are.

I can take him. If I can just get that pistol out of play, Krycek will be a one-armed corpse in my hallway. I take one breath.

\- Don't.

Krycek's voice is a snake's hiss.

\- These are armor-piercing loads, Skinner. .45 Hardballs. They can tear through a Kevlar vest like it was tissue. And you don't seem to be wearing that much.

He's right. I retreat to that quiet, cold place in my mind where all my final acts have been planned. There is no time in that place and I have the leisure to choose my tactics. It takes only a second of real time to make my decision.

If I can dive towards Krycek, forward and down, his hand should automatically track my movement away from Mulder. When he fires, the bullets will miss Mulder, giving him time to escape. It should work. 

Of course, I will be dead. But I have been dead before; it isn't so bad. At least I won't take Mulder with me. He will have the time he needs to get away.

There is a curious kind of peace to the knowledge that I will be dead very soon. And it is something worth dying for. That makes this moment almost sweet to me. A soldier wants nothing more than to die for a right cause.

I fix my eyes on Krycek and I see that he knows what will happen here. I take one deep breath, then another. I am ready now.

Then Mulder screws it up and I want to howl in grief and rage. His arms lock around my chest and I feel him rub his cheek against mine, then he rests his chin on my shoulder as he has so many times in the past month. 

No. 

Now my body is no protection at all for him; those loads will tear through us both. He has no defenses against Krycek and it will all be for nothing. His arms tighten and I feel the brush of his lips against my ear.

He is so affectionate, this private man, and he has been teaching me to be so, too, to show my love for him in simple touches, gentle embraces. This is the last lesson he will give me and the pain is more than I can take. I have to close my eyes to hold back tears that have not fallen in 25 years.

\- Please. Go. 

Don't let the last thing I ever know be the feeling of you dying against me because you tried to protect me. Oh, Fox.

There is the whisper of his voice in my ear.

\- I won't let you leave me. 

No, I guess he wouldn't. Stupid maniac. I love you, I think, then there is nothing and I wait for Krycek's gunpowder kiss. One breath. Then two. How many last breaths can a man take?

After a time, I open my eyes. Krycek is gone. I let out a long breath and say the first thing that comes into my head.

\- Jesus, Mulder. Would you be more careful who you flirt with next time?

Mulder makes an appalled noise of protest against my skin. Then I feel him shaking with laughter, still leaning against my back. I turn in the circle of his arms and hold him tightly. Mine. His. 

I have died and live again and he is in my arms, tucked under my chin. I can smell him, taste him, hear him, touch him - all but see him. My eyes refuse to work for me now. Tears are burning down my face, soaking into his hair and he is still laughing. Why not? It's as good as any reaction I can think of.

\- I love you.  
\- Oh. Good. I'd hate to think you do this for all of your dates.  
\- Shut up.

His laughter keeps sparkling against my chest for a long time afterward.

Finis

The End of the "No Common Senses" series (well, the end, if you count parts a, b and Leila's part c).

 

* * *

 

Slashx: 9 July 1998  
ArchiveX: 13 July 1998  
Epilogue  
By JiM  
Note: This piece was actually written as a little bedtime story for Leila, who complained bitterly that it was too damned depressing. Oops. <shrug> Think of it as an unpublished epilogue to the "No Common Senses" series. That series can be found at: http://www.geocities.com/Paris/Metro/4859/JiM.html, but is not necessary to get this piece. All feedback appreciated at: 

* * *

Epilogue  
by JiM

The night air was rich around him, almost thick with the scents and sounds of summer in the great northern woods. It had rained earlier in the evening; clear, sweet water still dripped from leaves and darted down tree trunks. The ground under his feet was resilient and the spicy scent of redwood swirled around him, making him light-headed with memories. He leaned against the rock cairn and waited. He was used to waiting.

Mulder was early. He hiked up the path, head down, moving at a steady, ground-devouring pace, both graceful and economical of movement. The moon was nearly full tonight, making the path a pewter ribbon through the trees, over the small footbridge and past the foot of the cairn. Mulder sat on the rocks of the cairn for a time, just breathing in the night air, hands on his knees and no thoughts in his head. He, too, was used to waiting.

There was a whisper of sound and Alex Krycek seemed to flow out of the shadow of the rock monument.

"Hi."

"Krycek."

Mulder tilted his head and looked at the assassin calmly. The man was a playground for shadows and moonlight. Light and dark sliced across him and there were no colors but black and gray and white. Mulder couldn't even see the feral green gleam he was used to in the midst of the flawed angel's face. Now, there was no light from within.

"Where's the big man?"

Krycek didn't seem particularly interested in his own question. His dark gaze roved across Mulder's features. Mulder felt as if he were being cataloged, memorized, touched by the beams of a copy machine.

"He's down at the lodge."

"Does he know where you've gone?"

"Yes."

For the first time, Krycek seemed nervous. "And you think he's going to let you come up here to meet me by yourself? Dammit, Mulder, I'm as good as dead!" Krycek looked as if he were about to melt back into the night.

"He said he wouldn't interfere. I trust him."

"Why'd you come up here?"

"I trust you."

The words were spoken quietly, but with complete confidence.

There was a bitter laugh and Krycek turned so that the moonlight fell across his face. For the first time, Mulder could see his eyes. They were flat black, no white at all. All the mysteries of deep space swam in their depths.

"You shouldn't, Mulder. You really shouldn't."

Mulder took a stumbling step backwards, then caught himself and straightened.

"Are you all right, Krycek?"

Ducking his head, face in shadow again, Mulder saw the gleam of white teeth.

"I'm ... all right, Mulder. It's not so bad, after a while."

Krycek lifted his head and gazed steadily at Mulder. He saw the tall, lanky form of his ex-partner, lines clean and sure in the uncertain shifting light of the moon. Moonlight silvered his hair, deepened his eyes and made him a creature of starlight and fantasy. As he had always been for Alex.

Shaking himself, Krycek handed Mulder a small vial of darkish fluid. The FBI agent held it up to the light, but could see nothing distinguishing about it -it might almost have been a vial of the black oil. But, no.

"That's it, Mulder. That's all you need. Reproduce it and start inoculating your people."

"What about you?"

"It's far too late for me, Mulder. Just make sure that you get some of the first batch. You and Skinner. "

Surprise roughening his voice, trying to ignore the finality in Krycek's words, Mulder said, "Why all the tender concern, Krycek? As I recall, the last time we were all together, you were ready to shoot him. And me."

Krycek laughed, a short fox's bark in the darkness. "Never you, Mulder. I would never have shot you." He stopped, then spoke again, much lower. "I think about you two, sometimes. The two of you together. I remember what you looked like that night. I keep that image in front of me, like a snapshot." He laughed again, that same short laugh, only without bitterness this time. "You've become ... important to me, you and Skinner."

He shook himself, and stray drops of water flew from his flat black hair. "Time to go, Mulder. Be well. Take the vaccine and *keep* well." He turned to go and was stopped by Mulder's hand reaching out, but not touching his shoulder. He turned.

"Alex."

"What?" he said brusquely, then went very still when Mulder's hands closed on his shoulders. Slowly, gently, he was pulled against Mulder's body, wrapped in his arms. For the first time in years, Alex Krycek was touching another human being without violence or fear.

Mulder tipped Krycek's chin with one gentle hand, not flinching when the oil-flat eyes flashed in the moonlight, fixing on him. The kiss was tender, careful, warmth without flame, heat without danger. Krycek stood without moving, then there was the benediction of Mulder's lips brushing against his forehead, then the soft whisper,

"Thank you, Alex. Goodbye."

The gentle hands released him. He melted back into the night without a backwards glance.


End file.
